


Foresight Reawakened

by newtypeshadow



Series: Foresight [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Denial, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Prophetic Visions, Red String of Fate, Seer Draco, Written Pre-Half Blood Prince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-20
Updated: 2005-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 18,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtypeshadow/pseuds/newtypeshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Draco was very young, he saw things that weren't there. He is seeing them again. Sequel to 'Foresight.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crucio!

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Brenna8, for starting me off; Mintapotter, ashlyn, and weez, for faithfulness; and raineycreek, for inspiring me to write again. It's been fun. this is my first completed (albeit really, really short) chapterfic! I haven't read the books since last year, so I've no memory of how anyone sounds. Concrit is very welcome.  
> ~Notes from original posting on fanfiction.net in 2005. Concrit less welcome as this won't be re-edited.

Draco's mother did not want him to join the Death Eaters. She would not tell him why, and his father agreed with her. Conversations throughout the summer were shot down immediately with "perhaps when you're older" or "the war will be over by then, darling."

He found out the real reason after a fight with Potter. It took place in the hallway on the way from Potions to Care of Magical Creatures, and in the end both used _Crucio_. Only Potter's hit. It lost him fifty house points and gained him the eternal respect of everyone who'd ever crossed Draco Malfoy, and more besides.

Draco, meanwhile, had never felt such pain. As his vision went dark, he saw his own face bending over his body. I'm dying, he thought, and passed out.

*

He woke in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was fussing with the person in the bed next to his. "I'm not giving you anything for those, young man," she was saying. "You got into that fight yourself. And poor Draco! Mr Potter, you've certainly done it now."

So it was Potter then, the smarmy bastard. Draco sat up, limbs aching, and turned to swing his legs off the side of the bed. He was leaving. He was leaving and writing his mother, who would use her considerable influence to get Potter kicked out of Hogwarts and onto the witness stand at his own bloody trial. The git should have his wand broken, that's what. Draco was humiliated. More than anything, he hated Harry Potter.

"Oh, you're awake." Madam Pomfrey scurried over and, not bothering to close the curtain so Potter's nosy face couldn't peer right in, bustled Draco back into bed and under the thin sheet. "I'll need you to take these for me—" she motioned to a handful of vials on the table, "and tell me how you're feeling now. Do your legs hurt?"

"My entire body hurts, no thanks to Potter," Draco spat, glaring at the cause of his misery. Potter was now standing across the room at a hospital bed. Its occupant was obscured by the sheet, but he or she looked to be just waking up. Fucking Potter, wasn't even paying attention to Draco. Then Potter leaned down and kissed the person in the bed. Draco almost felt impressed—who knew he could do that? The patient lifted a bit, and Draco saw—himself?

"Sweet Merlin's balls—" he swore, covering his mouth and feeling decidedly ill. "What the bloody—"

Pomfrey was whining at him but Draco paid her no attention. He instead slipped off the other side of the bed and hobbled over to Potter, who, come to think of it, looked strangely harder, and the crazy vision of himself with the lowborn taste in mudblood-descended wizards. "What the hell are you _doing_?" He near shouted. "Stop, for the love of Macha!"

Thankfully, they did. And Draco found himself staring at…himself. Older, eyes a bit warmer, hair certainly longer, face pale as a ghost. "Hullo," the other Draco said. "I must say I didn't expect to be able to see you, much less speak to you."

"Draco?" asked the older Potter.

"Do you remember the incident in the sick ward after you—I'll explain later." He turned to Draco. "Draco, I know this looks…odd…but write mother about it and she'll explain everything. And look up curses and spells that _Crucio_ counteracts. Also, remember: no one can see us but you."

"What?"

"So it would be wise to turn around and pretend you were hallucinating. At least until you've written mother."

"Wait—what do I tell her?"

But the other Draco wasn't paying him any mind. He pulled not-Potter's head down for another kiss, and Draco turned from them, disgusted.

Only to find the real Potter, Pomfrey, Professor Snape, and Headmaster Dumbledore staring at him like he'd grown another head which, in hindsight, Draco supposed he had. It just came with a very different body. "I…feel sick," Draco said truthfully. "I think I'll go lie down."

*

He wrote his mother. He said he'd seen himself, but older, kissing Harry Potter. Narcissa Malfoy arrived at Hogwarts that very night. She spent a long time in Dumbledore's office. Snape and Pomfrey were present, but Draco was told he needed to go to class the next day, and so should wait until morning to speak with her. He was drugged in the hospital wing, so he didn't put up much resistance, but all in all he felt let down. She had come to see _him_ , hadn't she?

The next morning she was by his bed, and he was excused from class. She told him everything she knew. It wasn't much, but by late afternoon, Draco was so enraged he wanted to kill someone—he just couldn't decide who.

Who do you blame for a future you don't want?

*

Draco was getting used to seeing people that weren't there yet walking down the corridors and sleeping in the wrong beds. He was excused in Snape's class from staring into space sometimes, and the first week out of the hospital ward Snape wore a different color pin in his lapel each day so Draco would know which Snape was real, and which is not-yet. He was learning that the not-yets—what his mother called them—had a shimmery quality that others didn't. The watery translucence was hard to see in black clothing, which swallowed the colors behind it. Draco came to hate the Hogwarts black robes. He was glad of the casual weekends when students wore what they wanted. They were much easier to tell apart that way.

They were in Potions class when Draco lost points for the first time. On the way in, he saw himself and the delinquent trio standing in the hallway. Ron was crying. The other Draco said something into his ear, and Ron did nothing. Not-yet-Hermione's hand gripped not-Ron's arm tighter, but she didn't let go or lash out at the other Draco like she seemed to want to.

Draco watched this and felt his stomach sink. The feeling was unexpected and unwelcome. Anger enveloped the unaccountable sorrow. Draco felt better this way.

In the classroom, the students sat bantering in a subdued manner—it is Snape's class, after all. He had not arrived yet, but the students were still careful of their words. When Snape came in, he was no longer wearing a color on his black robes. Draco's grace period was over, it seemed.

"Turn to page three-hundred and ninety-one," he said, and Draco forgot for half a lesson that anything was wrong with him at all.

Fifteen minutes before the end of class, Malfoy raised his hand. "Three sliced beetles," he smirked. At the front of the classroom, Snape raised his eyes from the papers he was grading with an angry hand and stared hard at Malfoy. The class was tittering. Draco realized he had spoken to a not-yet. His face reddened. "Sorry, sir," he said, but the damage was done.

"Talking to your ghosts again?" Ron whispered from the next desk over. Of course Potty would tell him about the incident in the hospital wing. The prat had no discretion whatsoever. "What are they saying now?" Ron asked when Snape was glaring at papers again. Snape slashed a big, thick line in red ink over what looked to be a paragraph, and something inside of Draco followed the annoyed movement with its own cruel shade of red.

"What do you think of that Head Boy brother of yours, Ron? The stuck up one—Pasley? Peasley? Percy? Yes, Percy…He's a ponce, don't you agree? You've called him names now and again."

Ron glared at Draco, but Draco wasn't finished. Of course not. This was too good not to tell. "You know something, Weasel? Next year your brother Percy is going to give his life to save you from something typically reckless. And I'm going to walk right up to you—just outside this classroom, in fact—and whisper 'I told you so.' And you—" Draco's voice fell to a whisper, "—are going to stand there and know it's true, and you. Still. Did it."

Very suddenly, someone wrenched Malfoy down the aisle of desks. It was Snape, Draco realized just in time not to lash out. He was practically thrown into Snape's office. The professor thundered in right behind him and slammed the door.

The sallow man was so angry he couldn't speak for several moments. Finally, he calmed and, hands clenched into fists at his side, said, "Is. That. True."

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy was terrified of his Head of House. "Yes," he whispered.

Measured silence. Professor Snape crossed his arms slowly across his chest. In a deceptively soft voice, he said, "I don't need to tell you, of course, that you mustn't speak of these visions to anyone except the Headmaster, myself, and your mother. I also don't need to tell you never to use your gift to harm students at this school." His mouth turned down a bit. "And of course, you knew before you opened your mouth that house points would be taken for your horrendously juvenile behavior."

"Points?" Draco sputtered. "But Prof—"

"I must say I'm disappointed in you, Mr Malfoy," Snape continued over Malfoy's objection. "I thought you would handle yourself better. I see I was mistaken. Twenty points from Slytherin." Snape swept out of the room. He left the door open. Draco saw the classroom was empty, but for Snape gathering the papers on his desk and putting them away.

Draco, for himself, could not remember a time when he had felt so hollow.


	2. Research, Quidditch, and Pansy

Snape had given him permanent access to the Restricted Section in fourth year. Draco claimed he needed it for extra credit potions work, but his Head of House knew he really wanted to research the Dark Arts no one would teach him in school, and gave him the pass. There were some things that needed to be taught, no matter what people thought. Snape understood that. He was a Slytherin.

Draco stood in the Restricted Section, pass safely back in his pocket, and ran his hands over the books. Title after title passed by on tomes big and small, but none was quite right. There were books defending against Unforgiveables and medical journals sponsored by St Mungos, but nothing specifically about harmful or hindering rituals, and nothing at all about Crucio. It was his second visit to the section; Pince was getting suspicious, even though Draco was well within his rights to be there. She kept on glaring at him with her hawkish eyes. It would have been unsettling if Draco hadn't been used to the unholy trio shooting him the same looks every day in Potions and Care of Magical Creatures.

He was searching for curses and rituals  _Crucio_  counteracted. It was hard to find the books he wanted because he couldn't come right out and ask Madam Pince without her telling Dumbledore exactly what he was up to, if the old coot didn't already know.

Draco's finger suddenly caught on a book stuck out a ways.  _The Dangers of Crucio!_  it read in big bold letters the color of cat eyes. Well, this looked promising.

Draco took it to a desk and sat down. Flipping to a random page, he read the first sentence his eyes alighted upon:

_Crucio is not completely harmful, however. It is used in small doses by some medical professionals to cure seizures, unlock abilities latent in less powerful wizards, and undo Dark Rituals which block such abilities from being used._

Dark rituals. Well, that narrowed down the field, though Draco had suspected only a Dark ritual would stop a Seer from Seeing. This book might be of some use after all.

Draco took it to the desk and checked it out, smiling sweetly at Madam Pince all the while.

* * *

Quidditch practice that night was brutal. Marcus Flint had come back to visit—it was the professional quidditch off-season. Draco, as the second-oldest member of the Slytherin team and the man in charge since Ripley got hit by a bludger earlier on and had to go to the hospital wing, had deferred to Flint's experience for the three practices he would be present.

"Malfoy, get your legs up under you!" the (finally) graduated Chaser yelled. Draco tucked his legs closer to the broom and let himself fake surprise at the tiny bit faster it managed to travel. It would make all the difference in a game, but chasing practice snitches spelled to stay above the field wasn't a problem for Draco. He could do this in his sleep, the Seeker thought, hand reaching for the snitch hanging obliviously just to his right.

His hand closed on air. "Oh, bugger," he spat.

Then the bludger knocked him off his broom.

* * *

"I thought it didn't exist yet!" he confided to Pansy. She'd been talking to Millicent, but was willing enough to leave the conversation when Draco walked in with his left arm in a sling.

"What do you mean you thought it didn't exist yet?" she asked.

Draco told her about the not-yets, everything his mother had told him and bits about the strange visions he'd seen thus far. He didn't tell her about the kiss in the hospital wing, though. Better not to plant the idea in anyone's head and hope that kept it from coming to pass. "But you mustn't tell anyone," he insisted when he was through.

"Do you want I help you look?"

"Look?"

"For whatever your curse is. Though if you ask me it's more a blessing than a curse. I mean, if you can see the future, you can change it."

"But that's just it," Draco said, using his wand hand to gesticulate before he remembered the bone was still knitting and  _bugger_  it hurt. "I can only see things in the places they'll happen. I'm not in the mood to go traipsing about just to see whether or not a certain place holds an important not-yet-conversation, or whatever. It's too shaky to be used properly."

"Draco." Pansy put a hand on his thigh. "That's just the way the future is. Unpredictable, unexplainable until you've lived it—sometimes not even then." She lifted her hand from his leg to tuck an errant lock of chestnut brown hair behind her ear. "Anyway, I still think it's a gift."

"Well, you would." He snorted. "Can't even win the national lottery with it."

Pansy swatted his arm. "Hey!" Draco shouted. "I'm injured here! Ugly cow."

Pansy just snickered and hugged him, shoving him down onto the bed and cuddling him like she was Millicent's loathsome black cat. "You know you love me," she said.

She swatted him again when he laughed.


	3. In the Library with Granger

In hindsight he supposed it was foolish to answer the question, but he wasn't thinking about that when he raised his hand and said, "Three sliced beetles," with a scarcely-concealed smirk on his face. He noticed Hermione staring at him peculiarly afterwards, quill unconsciously tapping her lower lip. He sneered at her.

"Miss Granger, if you're quite done making eyes at Mr Malfoy, perhaps you'd like to answer the next question?"

Draco tittered along with the rest of the class as her cheeks turned red and she faced forward. She answered correctly, of course—Granger always did—but the comment from Snape was enough to make Draco forget about his answer for the time being.

Granger, unfortunately, wasn't hindered by Snape—or anyone—in the least.

* * *

The books weren't there.  _Ancient Spells and Dark Artifacts_  was missing, as was  _Unforgivable Effects_  and all five volumes of  _Maeve's Encyclopedia of Medical Magic_. Draco grabbed  _The Dangers of Crucio!_  and left the Restricted Section with a scowl on his face.

His scowl deepened when he passed Hermione hunched over one of Maeve's books, twin stacks of suspiciously familiar volumes on either side of her bushy head. "Granger," Draco said dangerously, stopping over her shoulder.

"What?" she answered distractedly. "Could we talk later? I'm a bit busy."

"Granger, I need those books."

She looked up. "Oh." From the look on her face, she hadn't recognized Draco's voice, which itself was cause for annoyance. One would think after five and a half years of school together, she'd know the voice of the only person with the honesty to call her 'mudblood' to her face. This would be remedied…after he'd used the books. "Well," she was saying, "I'm using them right now. Perhaps later…" She slid the piles closer to her with her fingertips. It seemed an unconscious action, but Draco read the message all the same.

"You're not using them  _all_. You can only read one at a time. Give me the others."

"I could say the same to you, Malfoy. Anyway, you've already got a book." She inclined her head toward the book in Draco's hand. She had a small smile on her face.

"Only because you took those. This one's useless." Draco barely caught the slight nod of Granger's head, the pursing of her lips. Did she know? "Granger—"

"Look, you can use these." She slid some books to the other side of her table. "I've gone through them already."

"In other words, they don't have what you're looking for." Draco peered at the open page before the Gryffindor Prefect. She belatedly tried to hide it with the sleeve of her robe, but the  _Crucio!_  written at the top in thick black ink was too large to hide completely, as was the picture at the bottom of a man writhing in pain. Draco put his book on the table and pulled out the chair beside Granger. Flipping it around and sitting in it backwards, Draco crossed his arms over the backrest and peered intently into Granger's eyes. "What  _are_  you looking for, Granger?"

To her credit, Granger didn't look the least bit guilty when she said, "What sort of things have you been seeing lately, Malfoy?" When he didn't answer, she went right on in a hushed library tone, perfected over years doing nothing but studying to make others look bad. " _I_  think you're seeing things that haven't happened yet. Yesterday in Potions you said the same thing you said that day Snape took you to his office, and that was months ago. Harry told me about what happened in the hospital wing, too. And, we overheard Pomfrey talking to Dumbledore about a dark ritual—"

"Dark ritual? When did you hear that?"

Madam Pince glared at him, as did Hermione. "Shh," she admonished. "A dark ritual performed on you when you were eight or nine years old to make you stop seeing things."

Draco's mother had told him of it when she came to visit. What he wanted to know was why Pomfrey would be so foolish as to speak of it when nosey brats like Potter and his friends could overhear. They were always getting into things that weren't their business.

Like Draco's mouth, in the case of that disgusting not-yet from the hospital wing. Unconsciously, Draco shivered. That would never happen. Never. "So that's what you're looking for, then? It's not your business, Granger, I'm not one of your little extra-credit school projects. Sod off."

Draco reached for the book in front of Granger, but she grabbed his wrist. He wanted to hex her into next week, the insufferable bitch. She was almost as bad as Rita Skeeter, the effing liar who wrote the Azkaban "Expose" on Draco's father, among other upstanding pureblood wizards wrongfully imprisoned for the Ministry fiasco Potter was responsible for. At least Granger only had her two stupid friends to talk to, though in many ways they were just as bad. "Let me help you," Granger said softly.

"Why should I?" Draco whispered venomously. He didn't need her help. He didn't want it.

"I've done research like this before. I know what to look for: rituals  _Crucio_  counteracts, curses  _Crucio_  wakes from dormancy. Anything about wizards who see the future. I've looked through all those books, and they're not what you're looking for. Let me help."

"Why do you want to help me? Finally accepted your place?"

Draco smirked when anger spotted Granger's cheeks. She clenched her jaw and then said, "No more than you've accepted maturity. I'm not doing this from a sudden outpouring of goodwill toward you. Harry feels guilty—don't ask me why—"

" _What_?"

* * *

It was the first time Granger had been kicked out of the library, and she wouldn't shut up about it. "Did you  _have_  to shout?" she whined again. She'd been grousing since they walked out, hands empty, books quietly replaced on their proper shelves under the stern eye of Madam Pince, who was none too pleased with either of them for cluttering up her library with their little explosions of sound.

"I'll shout if I want! Potter feels  _guilty_? Next you'll tell me Dumbledore is the Dark Lord in disguise—"

"Dark Lord?" Granger looked at Draco like he was vermin. "Your _Dark Lord_ is a coward who makes others do his dirty work for him. He kills better people than himself because he's afraid to die. He's not a _Lord_ at all!"

"Shut up, Granger, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, don't I? Then why is your father still in prison?"

Draco's teeth involuntarily clenched. He wanted to hex her more than he ever had before. He nearly drew his wand, but uncurled his fist and said instead, "Potter doesn't feel guilt." He knew how to get her back. "He gets away with everything around here and is damn smug about it—you'd know, you're usually helping him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He killed Cedric Diggory and didn't feel guilty," Draco sneered, "What's a little Unforgivable on the worthless son of a Death Eater?"

Hermione pushed him. Hard. "Harry  _didn't_  kill Cedric! That's an awful lie and you know it!"

They were drawing a crowd, and not just because it was so uncommon to see Slytherins and Gryffindors willingly walking side-by-side. "Granger, this is hardly the place for—"

"Don't say a word, Draco Malfoy. Not. Another. Word." She stalked off down the hallway.

"No class," Draco muttered, straightening his robe with rough jerks. He stalked off in the other direction, shoving smaller students out of the way with angry vigor. It annoyed him that he'd have to double back eventually; the direction Granger'd taken off in led to the dungeons, among other things. Draco didn't want it to seem like he was chasing after her, though, so there was nothing for it. Draco slipped into an alcove, sat down behind one of the suits of armor that  _didn't_  talk or move, and waited for the crowd to thin out so he could return home to Slytherin. Who did Granger think she was, talking about his father like she knew what she was on about? She didn't know anything. Fucking Gryffindors, he thought as he waited. Always have their noses in someone else's business.


	4. Long Staring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Is descaid search sirshilliud._  
>  Long staring is a sign of love. (Irish proverb)

Not-Potter wrapped his arms around not-Draco and not-Draco let him. They stood so close that when one moved the other moved with him. Not-Harry guided them until not-Draco's back was pressed against the alcove wall, nearly hidden to Draco by the stone centaur raised proudly on its hind legs. The centaur blocked most of the action from view, but Draco could hear the sounds filtering from behind it, and they disturbed him.

Draco left the not-yets to their…dubious fun. Walking to the Great Hall from a different route, he resolved to get laid before starting the seemingly inevitable relationship with that low-breed Potter. It wouldn't do to enter the relationship a virgin, especially given the suspicion that his mother was purposely keeping something about Potter from him. Perhaps over the summer he could find some second or third pureblood daughter in the mood for a bit of fun. He was a Malfoy—it shouldn't be too difficult, especially among the Dark families.

When Draco got to the hall the only open space at the end of the table faced Gryffindor. "Saved it for you," Pansy said, daintily reaching for her glass and nodding to the seat beside her. She knew he liked to see the whole of the Hall while he ate. And they should be able to see him.

Today Draco didn't want to see anyone. He wanted his back facing the Hall as he ate his dinner, but Crabbe and Goyle were the only people in sixth and seventh year who would move at his order without a fight, and their spots were both messy with the bits of guzzled food that fell out their gaping mouths. There was nothing for it, Draco thought. He dished himself some food.

Across the hall, Potter was laughing with his friends. Something was going on at that end of the table; the Gryffindor boys were all huddled around Weasley and poking at something on the table. The girls were rolling their eyes and ignoring them, for the most part. Granger was staring at Weasley though.

"It's disgusting," Draco said. He stabbed his mutton with his fork. A knife. Where was his knife? Stupid house elves. Or someone'd stolen it. He glared around the table looking for the culprit.

"What's disgusting?" Pansy asked, handing him her knife without a word. There was butter on it from her biscuit. Draco wiped the butter off on the side of his plate.

"Gryffindors," he said, looking at Potter. His messy black hair looked like a tornado had landed square on his head, and his glasses looked the same. How much tape was on them? Shouldn't Granger have fixed them by now?

"Draco!"

"What?" Blaise was smirking at him, the weedy little rodent. Draco sneered at him. Blaise smirked wider.

"I've asked you three times—are you going home for winter hols?" Pansy's voice was annoying. Across the hall, Potter was laughing, mouth wide, teeth glinting in the sunset beaming down from the ceiling.

"Of course I'm going home," Draco replied, annoyed. She was like a mosquito sometimes, always buzzing when you wanted her to just leave you alone. He stabbed his mutton with his fork and sawed at it with his knife the way he wanted to saw into Potter's head, right under the nostrils and straight out the other side. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well…Draco, don't do that."

And then he's break Potter's perfect white teeth. "Do what?"

"You look like you're going to kill something," Pansy said.

Potter returned to his seat, facing away from Draco. A wide smile split the Gryffindor's face as he sat down. Draco wanted to stab his fork into Potter's mouth. See how not-Draco liked that. Not so easy to kiss someone with a fork sticking out their throat. Draco chortled.

"Alright, now you're scaring me," Pansy said.


	5. Granger's Terms

Winter hols were over. It was depressing being back at school, but then, it had been horrid being home. While Mummy was as wonderful as usual, she seemed worried when she was alone, and father wasn't home. The two went to visit him in Azkaban for Christmas, which was miserable in itself. Father had looked so pale….

Best not to think about it, Draco resolved, striding down the corridor. It was time for dinner. The last things he wanted to think about were his father, wasting away in that awful place, and—

The two not-yets were huddled into a broom closet when Draco saw them snogging. They had been laughing together, the not-Potter and not-Draco, and then suddenly they were kissing. Speak of the devils. Draco resolved to never set foot in that section of the school again, even if it meant starving to death or even missing class and losing House points. Pansy was the one who finally dragged him to the Great Hall. "I don't know what you're so afraid of," she said. "It's just a corridor." Pansy didn't know about these particular not-yets, or his own future self's appalling taste, and of course he couldn't tell her the real reason he couldn't just walk to the Great Hall like anyone else. When Draco had walked the mazes at home, he'd seen Potter wearing the Malfoy  _ring_!

Nevertheless, Draco went to dinner (it was delicious) and was glad of it, for there he spoke loudly of things that, across the hall, made Harry Potter hunch his back and stare deeply into his food.

Ah. It was good to be back.

* * *

Granger was looking especially smug, staring at Draco during Potions once again. He knew she'd figured out his curse. Draco, for his part, had looked through every book on the table that day of the ill-fated library visit—starting, of course, with the books Granger hadn't gone through yet, because Merlin knew the girl could find a needle in a haystack so long as both were written down in a book somewhere. His search yielded nothing, however, and Draco found himself back where he started, but for a head full of interesting uses for  _Crucio_  and a jaw aching from teeth perpetually ground in frustration.

"Out with it, Granger," Draco said immediately after class, slamming his hand down on the book she had yet to put into her bag.

"Out with what?" she asked innocently, sharing a look with Potter over Draco's shoulder. As if he couldn't see it, the cow.

"You know exactly what I mean. You've found something. You've been dying for me to ask you all period and now I am: out with it."

Granger grinned. "I believe you refused my help, Malfoy. Find it on your own."

Draco blinked as she whipped the book from under his hand and swept out of the classroom, Potter and Weasley struggling to keep up. Draco's cheeks turned red. He grabbed his satchel and strode out after her.

"Granger," he yelled down the busy hallway, "Tell me what you found!" Draco's voice wavered as it came out; he was being bumped and shoved by people going the opposite direction, some smaller and some much larger than he was. Where were Crabbe and Goyle when you needed them? "Crabbe? Goyle?" Suddenly there was no one bumping into him any longer. Draco smiled. "Catch Granger for me."

It was beautiful. In a turn-off of the hallway, a dead end but for the single classroom through the only door in the stone walls, Granger was trapped between the two burly Slytherins. Potter and Weasley were unsuccessfully trying to use words (at Granger's behest, no doubt) to get them to move. They wouldn't, of course. The Gryffindor boys were getting angry.

Draco stepped in. "Granger, you had something to tell me."

She glared at Crabbe and Goyle. They looked to Draco, who tilted his head sharply. The large Slytherins moved to stand behind him. "What was that about?" Granger asked. "I have a class."

"You have information," Draco said, "that doesn't belong to you."

"Oh, it's yours, is it?"

"How else did you find out about it if you weren't sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"

None of the trio spoke. Figured, they  _had_  been up to something.

"That's none of your business," Granger said. "And if you want to know what I've found, you have to do something for me first." It seemed a stretch for her to say it, as if she hadn't planned to do it in the first place.

"What?" Weasley said. "'Mione, don't let him bully you—"

"I'm not bullying anyone—"

"I can take care of myself, Ronald Weasley—"

Draco grinned. "Lover's quarrel?"

Granger almost left, but stopped when she saw Crabbe and Goyle step forward. She huffed. "Fine. I'll tell you what I've found out…but later. I have class now."

"No you won't. You won't tell me unless I make you do it  _now_."

"You're not making me do  _anything_ , Malfoy. And you can trust my word."

"Where, then?"

Granger frowned. Please don't say the Astronomy Tower, Draco thought, I'll never live it down. "Outside the Room of Requirement," she said finally.

"What?" Draco asked.

"Hermione!"

"That's the name of the room we held DA meetings last year," Granger said over Weasley's protest. Useful information, Draco thought, filing it away for later use.

"After supper," Draco nodded and turned to go.

"Wait."

"Don't you have a class, Granger?" Draco stood with his arms crossed, foot tapping on the stone floor. The tapping echoed in the enclosed space. Potter and Weasley were standing behind Granger now, talking in audible whispers. Draco listened in with some amusement.

Granger shushed them. "You have to do something for me first. That was the agreement."

"I didn't agree to that," Draco protested.

"Well then, don't find out what's wrong with you."

Crabbe and Goyle stirred behind him. They didn't know. "Draco?" Crabbe asked hesitantly.

"Hush, Crabbe." Draco waved a hand behind him and re-crossed it over his chest. "Fine," he said to Granger, "What do you want?"

She smiled. "Harry really  _is_  sorry about what happened. He wants to apologize. I want you to accept his apology."

"What!" Draco's protest was joined by those of Potter and Weasley who, it seemed, also knew nothing of Granger's little plan.

"I'm not accepting his apology." "You  _told_  him?" "You  _are_." "Why would you  _want_  to apologize to that smarmy little ferret?"

It was pandemonium in the little hallway for a stretch, until Granger shouted "QUIET!" and everyone did. "Now. We do it my way, or we don't do it at all," she said.

"I say we don't do it—"

"RON!"

It was easy to see who wore the trousers in  _that_  relationship. Not that there had been any doubt.

"Anyway, you don't have to do it now. But you  _will_  accept his apology, and  _you_  will—" she crooked a finger at Potter, "apologize. Before supper tonight. Now if you'll all excuse me—" the witch slipped past Draco and out of the little hallway, managing even to squeeze between the considerable bulks of Crabbe and Goyle, "I have class."


	6. Potter's Apology

Draco threw his wrist-guards into his locker with a violence matched only by the Unforgiveable curse Potter'd thrown at him, the start of this whole mess. He'd caught three wrong snitches, barely dodged two bludgers that were real but that he'd thought weren't, and been grounded by one captain Jarvis Ripley for erratic flying once he started dodging everything in the air, including the not-Ravenclaw team practicing for what sounded like the championship.

Which means he somehow missed the snitch when Slytherin played Ravenclaw in two weeks. Things just kept getting better. Draco cast his quidditch robes on the bench and headed for the showers, not bothering to bring a towel with him. He'd walk back naked—he had nothing to be ashamed of, and fuck it but when he checked his locker the towel was gone. Flint probably took it—he'd been known to do that when he was captain, why should now be any different? Draco just hoped he'd left it somewhere instead of taking it back to Australia with him.

The shower was refreshingly cool when Draco stepped in. When he got goosebumps he turned it warmer, letting the heat wash over him. He tried to let the water rinse away the anger and frustration of the day, the strange and frightening urge to cry. Instead, rage simmered just under his skin. Draco punched the wall. Again. Again.

Bugger, that hurt. He shook his wrist out, glad the skin hadn't broken, and let the throbbing ache in his knuckles push out the rest of his frustration.

Granger was going to tell him what his curse was today, and Potty was going to apologize. Draco wouldn't accept, of course, but Granger didn't have to know that. Suddenly Draco's ill feeling lifted: he couldn't wait to see the look on Potter's face when he said, "No."

* * *

Draco's hand had been spelled fixed with his rudimentary healing knowledge by the time he got to the hallway of the Room of Requirement. He remembered well the triumphant capture in this hallway of the DA. It was one of his most treasured Hogwarts memories…though he had felt a bit guilty when Professor Umbridge got back to the castle. He still wanted to know what Granger had done, but then sometimes pulling information from that witch was like forcing respect from a Hippogriff: impossible.

Draco was walking the hallway thinking hard of a meeting place with Granger, as he'd been told to do by the note sent him during supper, when suddenly a door opened in the wall and Potter stepped out. Draco looked down at the sheet of paper. He wasn't anywhere near the door, yet there it was. Perhaps the need to walk was negated by Potter's exiting the room and leaving the door ajar, as he had.

"Waiting for me, Potter?" Draco called out, approaching with deceptive carelessness. "How sweet of you."

Potter glanced back at the doorway and stepped out a bit further. "Er…well, sort of. I mean, yes. I just wanted to…."

Draco stopped beside Potter and waited. He wasn't offering any help. This was Potter's punishment for casting that curse in the first place.

"I wanted to ap—apologize." Potter looked down at his shoes. "So, uh, do you accept?"

Draco smirked. "What are you apologizing for, exactly? For humiliating me for five years running? For winning the house cup for Gryffindor last year…and the year before…and the year before that? Are you apologizing for your appalling hair and the lack of taste in your couture? Or is it—"

"Don't be smart, Malfoy. You know very well what I'm apologizing for."

"Your hair, then. Yes, it is rather messy. I could fix it for you, but it'll cost you."

"You couldn't tame my hair if you tried, Malfoy."

Draco's face stretched into a full grin. "I bet I could."

"You couldn't."

"I could."

"Not even you," Potter said.

"What do you mean, 'not even me?' I've been challenged! Turn around, I'll prove it to you right now—get out a Galleon, because that's how much you'll owe me when I'm through." Draco withdrew his wand and pointed it at Potter's head.

Potter backed up a few paces and pointed his wand at Draco. "I came to apologize, not…not tame my hair." He looked like he was about to laugh, and Draco supposed it was rather ridiculous. He put his wand away and rolled his eyes. Potter did likewise. They stood facing each other, matching smirks on their faces. "I really am sorry. For  _Crucio_ , that is. And what it's…you know."

"Not yet I don't. Granger hasn't told me a thing yet."

"Oh. Oh, right." Potter nodded.

The two stood awkwardly. "Do you accept?" Potter asked hesitantly.

"No."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "No?" He took a step closer. "But—"

"What are you going to do, tell Granger on me? Is she your mum now?"

Potter glared at Draco. It looked like he was grinding his teeth. "No," he said shortly.

"Well then—"

"But she'll know if you don't accept."

"I simply don't want to lie to you, Potter. I don't accept your apology, and I won't as long as I keep seeing these… _things_ …" Draco thought of his future self kissing Potter and shivered. "Nasty, terrible things…"

Potter stepped closer. "What is it like?"

Draco glared at him. "Horrifying. I could kill you for what you did."

"You threw the exact same curse at me, Malfoy—you just missed! And how was I to know?"

Draco shrugged. "You should have thought of that before you cast an Unforgiveable."

"Oh, did you?"

Draco grinned. "No, but it wouldn't have stopped me."

Potter turned toward the door and put his hand on the handle. "You're impossible," he said, flinging it open and nearly hitting someone hiding on the other side.

"Watch it!" cried a feminine voice.

"Hermione, he's impossible. I can't apologize to him."

"You already did. I just didn't accept."

Granger frowned at him. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her bushy hair was more frazzled than usual. She looked rather like a poodle, Draco thought, especially with that constipated expression on her face. "You have to accept his apology before I tell you a word."

"You would have me  _lie_? Granger, you wound my honor."

"You don't have honor," Potter said with a disgusted look. He ran an angry hand through his still-messy hair and started pacing. "I should never have said anything."

"Oh, no, I thought it was entertaining. Bravo." Draco applauded haughtily.

"Hermione!" Potter pointed at Draco.

"Draco Malfoy, you either act civil or you wonder what's wrong with you until you're lucky enough to stumble across it yourself. I'll tell you now, it's not in anything you'll find in Hogwarts, so you'll be stuck at least until summer." She put her hands on her hips. "So, what have you decided?"

Draco glared at them both. Finally he crossed to Potter and held out his hand. "I accept your apology."

Potter stared at the hand suspiciously, but took it and shook. "Thank you," he said.

Draco leaned close to Potter's ear, so close his breath moved Potter's curly black locks when he spoke. "I don't, really," Draco whispered.

"I know," Potter whispered back. His breath rippled down Draco's spine. They withdrew their hands and Potter left.

Granger had an odd smile on her face when Draco turned around.

"What?"

"Nothing."

She sat in one of the plush red armchairs scattered about the room. Its walls were covered by large bookshelves, each row full to bursting with books and bookends in the shapes of the griffins, snakes, badgers, eagles. There were throw rugs on the floors, some neutral colored couches scattered among the armchairs, and a cozy fire crackling away under the mantle of one wall. Granger motioned to the couch beside her armchair. Both faced the lone coffee table standing before the fire. Some copied sheets of parchment—no, it looked muggle, and was whiter than parchment—and a thick, heavy book without the mark of Hogwarts library on its spine sat upon the table. There was also a letter—parchment—on the table, with the messy signature of Viktor Krum along the bottom.

Draco smirked. Still had a thing for Granger, that much was obvious. "So, what can you tell me about my…affliction?" Draco asked.


	7. The Eye of Fedelm

"Fedelm is a prophetess from Celtic mythology," Hermione began. "She appears in  _The Tain_  to tell queen Medb not to attack because the future of her army is bathed in blood. She's a real figure, of course. Athough her body has never been found there are rumors that one of her eyes remains in the mortal realm and can give those who look into it—if you are the right sort of person—the power of foresight, prophecy.

"The Ministry of Magic was rumored to have acquired the Eye in 1714 from the home of a private collector of Dark Artifacts, but it disappeared after a Death Eater raid in 1979. Most of the people involved in the raid are either dead or in Azkaban…You may be the only person who knows where it is," she said ominously.

Draco snorted. "Don't be silly. My fa—that's ridiculous," he hastened to amend. "I don't even remember when I saw it, if it's even true."

But Draco did remember.

He'd been eight years old. His father told him he had a secret for him—a birthday present. "Don't tell mummy," he had said, leading Draco into that dark room filled with coldly glowing objects. It was somewhere underground. Dingy. The threshold was made of rotting wood, the room itself of plaster and grey stone. The air was dry, cool, oppressive, filled with the darkness of envy, death, and desire. Things grotesque and torturously made beckoned from all sides. Come closer, they seemed to call, come to me. Draco was frightened, but he dared not call attention to himself. His father, an imposing figure in long black robes, was caressing the air before a black and white candle flame. Draco inched toward him.

"Don't be frightened," his father coaxed, charmingly amused expression softening his features. "Nothing in this room can harm you." He seemed sure of himself, and so Draco believed. His father would never lie to him.

Draco stepped further inside, body willed in a thousand Dark directions as the objects, severed limbs, masques beckoned silently, pulling on the magic that flowed through his veins. From the far end of the room though, there was nothing. No molasses pull, no darkness like the phantoms under Draco's bed that came out and played inside his walls when the lights went out. Draco retreated to that empty space and stood, relieved…

Enthralled. It was amazing! Above an ornately wrought gold stand wider than Draco's two hands and finely painted, hovered a closed eye. Like Draco, its eyelashes were long and golden. Its skin was pale as his own during winter. It was strangely beautiful. Draco stared, transfixed.  _Open_ , the thought excitedly.

It did.

It had seven deep blue irises, ringed concentrically around a fathomless black pupil that seemed to draw him in, following the largest iris down to the smallest and inside that black hole, inside…

"So what do you think?" Granger asked. Draco snapped out of his reverie. Strange, that he'd forgotten. It was such a pivotal moment for him, though he supposed he couldn't have known. He felt he should have anyway. "Could it be Fedelm's Curse?"

"Wait, it's actually a  _curse_?" Draco felt a chill worm its way into his heart. It was all fine and good calling it a curse, but it  _being_  a curse was another thing entirely.

Granger sighed. "Have you listened to a word I said? It's called a curse because it usually allows one to see only acts that lead to violence or danger. Fedelm prophesied for an army going to  _war_. Cassandra deWinter, a Ministry worker, saw the Eye in 1943 in an effort to aid in the fight against Grindelwald. She remembered and recorded everything she saw, and all of it was about Grindelwald's victories and defeat—nothing of happy events. Well," Granger amended, grin flitting across her face, "she could see things pertaining to her husband, but that was the only exception."

Draco's blood ran cold. Potter. "No," he said. "It's not possible." Could that be what his mother was keeping from him? "No," he whispered again.

"Draco? Draco, is something wrong?" Granger leaned forward and reached for his arm.

"I have to go," Draco said, and fled the room.

* * *

Granger owled the rest of the information to him that night. It consisted of a copy of bits from Krum's letter, notes from various books, and the muggle copies held together by a twisted piece of metal.

He gave them to Pansy; he couldn't concentrate on anything but Potter. Potter, his husband. Potter, the insufferable wanker, his husband. He wondered what it would be like, married—bonded, rather. Hellish, no doubt. But still he wondered. More often, though, he paced or sat, restless, contemplating killing himself nobly—Potter would be miserable the rest of his loveless life—or sequestering himself in Malfoy Manor until he died of old age a happy, senile bachelor  _without_  Potter.

* * *


	8. Grounded

Professor Snape was putting papers in his desk when Draco entered the office. Without preamble, Draco said, "Professor, we need to put colors on the balls."

"Excuse me?" Professor Snape folded his long fingers together and set his elbows on the desk.

Draco sat down without being invited; he hadn't needed invitation since his first visit in first year. "The quidditch balls. I can't tell which is real and which isn't when I'm in the air. I got hit by a bludger that doesn't exist, and nearly broke my arm on one that does!"

"Draco, we cannot put colors on the quidditch balls."

"Why not? I have a…a disability," he muttered dejectedly.

"Draco, you're going to have it all of your life, from the looks of it. I realize it's hard, but you must learn to deal with it now, or it truly  _will_  become a disability."

"I can't be Seeker like this."

"Mr Potter is fine a Seeker and his eyes are next to useless." The professor seemed loath to say it.

Draco snickered, but sobered almost immediately. "He can spell his glasses and make them no worse than a normal pair of eyes. I can't just spell my eyes." He slouched in his chair. "We'll lose the game because of me."

Professor Snape frowned. Draco knew how competitive he was with the other houses. It didn't seem to be enough, however. "If we were to do as you suggest, people would ask questions. Your affliction would become common knowledge in a matter of hours."

"It doesn't have to be that way!" Draco insisted. "Professor, I  _need_  those colors, at least for the match Saturday. I caught the  _wrong_   _snitch_ , for Merlin's sake."

"Draco."

"Sorry sir. I'm very frustrated. We practiced for hours and nothing seemed to help. I'm almost glad I'm not captain."

The professor snorted. Draco managed a grin. "Isn't there something I can do?"

The professor's dark eyes almost seemed sad. "We can't color the balls, Draco. Under other circumstances I would suggest warding the field against specters or spelling your inner eye to keep it shut—"

"You can do that?"

"Of course—what do you think muggles do when they don't want to know something? Theirs is a lesser form of magic, but it's the same principle. It won't work in your case though, so don't get your hopes up."

"Why not?"

"Your particular case is…a special one, Draco. Seeing as we don't know what you have, exactly—"

"I looked into the Eye of Fedelm when I was a child."

Snape smirked at this before he seemed to realize the gravity in those simple words. He stood up and loomed over his desk. It felt like Snape's body stretched even over Draco's chair. "Fedelm? The Eye of Fedelm? Are you certain?"

"Quite," Draco said, trying to sound casual. "Mother told me about the ritual and the room, and then Granger told me about curses, and when she started talking about it the Eye I remembered seeing it directly."

The professor started pacing back and forth between Draco and the desk. Draco let him and sat in silence, used to such things. Snape stopped. "How much do you know about the Eye of Fedelm?" he asked.

"Only what Granger told me."

The professor's eye gave a little tick. Draco felt his fingers twitch in sympathy. Nosey Gryffindors. "What did Miss Granger tell you? Tell me everything."

Draco did.

When he was finished, Professor Snape looked upset. "Well, she certainly has done her homework," he said. "How did she know to look in the first place?"

"The sliced beetles. The question I answered in class," Draco clarified. "Twice."

"Clever little witch," he muttered. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the side of the desk. "Far be it for me to suspect her of foul play on her own. Draco, this is a bigger problem than a simple quidditch game. You may play in the match on Saturday, but after that I'm afraid you'll need to stay on the ground."

"What!"

"I must speak to the headmaster, but I'm sure he'll agree. Come to my office on Monday at eight o'clock—sit down, Mr Malfoy. No, you're not in trouble. No, it is not detention," he said, forestalling Draco's questions, "I'll explain it to you on Monday."

Draco was going to write his mother. She would surely do something about this outrage! There was no need for him to be ground—

"Draco?" Snape called from the doorway Draco had just stormed out of, "Give your mother my best." The door closed, an air of finality in the echoing  _click_.


	9. Quiddich Game

Saturday morning Draco woke with the sun. It was the day of the quidditch match against Ravenclaw, and damned if Draco was going to lose his last game before he was grounded from the field. Draco frowned into the mirror.

"Careful, you'll freeze like that," it warned.

"Oh, sod off," Draco muttered. Fucking Potter. It was all his fault. And stupid Snape, too, for not just spelling Draco's inner eye shut like Draco had asked him. The angry Slytherin pulled on his quidditch robes with jerky movements and the occasional yawn. He wasn't used to getting up this early and he felt it acutely.

At the breakfast table, Draco could barely stomach a slice of toast and jam. "You really should eat," Pansy said.

Draco's stomach felt shredded to ribbons, all of which were moving. "I'm too nervous to eat," he said softly. Louder, he announced, "I'm not hungry."

Crabbe and Goyle looked shocked. A piece of egg fell out of Crabbe's big mouth and dropped back onto his loaded down plate. "Not hungry?" Goyle asked. The idea seemed entirely foreign and horrifying to him.

"Yes, of course. It happens to most people at some point in their lives." Draco sneered. " _Most_  people."

Blaise and Pansy twittered. Crabbe and Goyle seemed not to get the slight. They washed away their confusion with large gulps of juice. "Disgusting," Pansy murmured.

Draco nodded, but said nothing. Across the hall, Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, seemed to be having the same problem as Draco. There was nothing on her plate but toast, and her goblet remained untouched. Draco smirked and resolutely bit into his toast. Damned if he was losing to Potter's girlfriend. Ugly cow.

* * *

But he did lose. Draco couldn't understand how it happened. One minute he was dodging a bludger, the next minute the crowd was cheering, he was arcing across the field for the snitch, and then the new announcer (John Smith? No, that was someone else) was roaring, "And Cho Chang has caught the snitch!" Draco's hand closed around thin air. He turned his broom and saw Chang across the field with her hands around the real snitch. Her expression was of shocked joy—shocked because Ravenclaw  _always_  lost to Slytherin—and joy because…well, that was obvious.

The Slytherins were entirely silent when Draco flew past them to the ground. Ripley was livid. "Why weren't you there? Where the hell did you think you were flying? The snitch was barely thirty feet away and you go  _streaking across the field_!"

Draco wanted to shout, "I have an effing disability!" and leave it at that. He wanted to shout, "Rematch!" or "It's because Snape wouldn't color the balls!" But he couldn't. He stood there and let Ripley shout so vehemently there was spittle flying everywhere and the captain's face was turning blotchy red and white. Finally, Draco turned and walked away.

"Don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you! Malfoy! Malfoy, you're grounded!"

"I'm already effing grounded—I told you before! This was my last game, you sodding  _wanker_!"

The team was struck dumb at that. "Wait, you're grounded? What? You can't be grounded—"

But Draco ignored them and went into the showers. Throwing his gear into his locker with frustrated mutterings and letting the scalding water of the shower turn him red to blistering, Malfoy let all of his anger bubble to the surface and then simmer to nothing. What could he do but meet Snape on Monday? For detention, no matter what Snape called it.

Draco walked naked back to his locker—he still had no towel, and sod Flint while he was at it—and pulled on his extra set of school robes.

In Slytherin, the makings of another post-victory party were still hung on the walls. Draco walked past the resentment-filled room getting quietly smashed and thinking of the botched game, and went straight to his dormitory. Blaise was there, sherry in one hand and glass in the other. "Want some?"

"How much will this cost me?" Draco grumbled.

"It's on the house."

Draco blinked, but reached out a hand. Blaise passed Draco the filled glass and watched him drink.

"Why'd you lose the game today?"

Draco half expected the truth to come unbidden to his tongue. He wouldn't put it past a Slytherin to pour Verataserum in someone else's sherry.

"I thought I saw the snitch."

"In the wrong direction."

Draco nodded and sipped again.

"Something's going on, isn't there?" Draco didn't answer. "Well, that makes me feel better. Want more?" he asked, eyeing Draco's empty glass.

"Yeah." Draco sniffed. "Yeah."


	10. Snape, Homework, and 4am Patrol

By Monday it was obvious Draco Malfoy was the least popular boy in Slytherin. Draco trudged into Snape's office with bushy hair and a burn in his robes—compliments of some unimportant second year who'd accidentally scorched it trying to lift Draco's dinner goblet into the air to dump the contents on his head. Draco used hair gel to keep his hair down, but someone had spelled it to fluff up his hair instead, and none of the spells Draco knew to counteract this problem were working. Draco didn't even have his wand anymore; Blaise had it because he'd stolen it back from a seventh year who'd gotten into their dorm and tried to jerry-rig Draco's trunk to burn his hands when he touched it.

It had been a miserable weekend.

Draco plopped down on the chair before Snape's desk and ran a hand through his terrible hair. Merlin, it looked like he'd slept on it. He would get back at the whole of Slytherin if it was the last thing he did.

"They'll forget about the game in a day or so." Snape swept in from the potions classroom in a dark wave. "In the meantime, let's make sure this doesn't happen again. You won't be playing again this year, but there is still hope for the next." Draco perked up at this. He almost forgot Snape had effectively grounded him from flying for the remainder of the term. Almost. The professor sat down on the other side of the desk. "Now, you need to learn to tell the difference between real people and these…apparitions…"

"The not-yets are a bit watery, and generally look older than me."

Professor Snape frowned at him. "Generally look older than you. How much?"

Draco had been speaking sarcastically, so he nearly choked when Snape voiced the question. "I don't know…just… _older_. Like, a year," he reported, thinking of the not-yets snogging in the hospital wing. Suddenly, there was a tick near his right eye.

"Which apparitions? Are any apparitions your age?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Don't be a fool—of course it matters. Figuring out how far they are in the future will help you immensely if you plan to change it."

"Change the future?" Draco crossed his legs and sat back in the plush deep green easy chair. "How can I change the future?"

Professor Snape looked like he'd swallowed a lemon. "Are you being deliberately obtuse, or do you really need me to spell this out for you?"

Draco sat up and uncrossed his legs. "I don't see how knowing the future allows me to change it. Everything I've seen so far is…well, I don't want it to happen, but I don't know how to change it. Even Weasley's brother—how do I change that? I don't know how it happened."

Snape breathed a sigh of relief. "So you listen. Fedelm's curse is related to place and time. Come again the same time and day and listen in the hallway—you might find out more. If you see apparitions at all, something important is happening. Make a note of it and return to those places. You'll find out more that way. Then come to me."

"Notes…like a diary? Girls keep those."

"A diary is an excellent idea, Mr Malfoy." Snape stood up in a shock of black. He strode around the desk and began pacing before the fireplace behind Draco's chair. Draco turned to look. It was rather dizzying. With Snape's long strides, three steps and he was at the door, four and he was across the room at the bookshelves. "Yes, a diary."

"Professor, anyone could find it."

"Do you wish to keep it in  _here_? Surely you've learned to spell your trunk closed by now, Mr Malfoy."

Draco pouted. "Yes, sir. One thing—I don't have a diary."

"Get one in Hogsmeade. In fact, I'm assigning you this diary as a special project. I don't need to know everything that you see—I know some things pertain only to your future…beloved…" Snape used the word dubiously. Draco felt mildly offended. "However, things you deem particularly important or dangerous I want you to report to me."

"Of course, sir." Draco had no intention of reporting to anyone. Snape gave Draco a look, as if to say, "I know exactly what you're thinking," but said nothing else.

"Is that all, sir?"

"For now, this is all. I want you to learn to tell the difference between these not yets, to keep a diary, and to report to me anything you deem dangerous to someone else or of singular importance. The death of a Weasley is one such thing, Mr Malfoy, even if their choices would not have been your own. Are we clear?"

Draco sighed. "Yes, sir, perfectly, sir."

"Good." Snape removed his hands from their place clasped behind his back and sat back down at the desk. "Now tell me, how is your mother holding up? I hear she visited your father this weekend."

* * *

Draco did his homework in the library for the rest of the school week. He didn't trust himself to do it in Slytherin without getting hexed and hexing someone else in return. It was too dangerous to be in his house right now. Perhaps Snape was right, and everything really  _would_  quiet down. He just had to stick it out. Problem was, it was already Friday, and—

He heard whispering behind him. Draco turned to see two fourth year Slytherins glaring at him from the bookshelves.

Draco turned back to his books. Merlin, if he could just stick it out.

* * *

After returning with his books to Slytherin, Draco slept until quarter to three and got up. Shrugging his robes on groggily, he stumbled out of the wall and into the corridor. It was time for the prefect to patrol.

Past the kitchens, past the great hall, checking the field for late night quidditch and the lake for late night shagging. Past Gryffindor Tower and Hufflepuff Hall and Ravenclaw's turret and the Slytherin dungeons, Draco checked them all for stragglers and delinquent students out of bed. He found three boys coming back from the kitchen and took off house points. He bumped into to Filch, who liked him for some reason and wouldn't stop talking about his desire to whip detention students like they had back in the old days. He also ran into Professor McGonagall, who asked him how he was holding up in her kindly old spinster voice, then passed on when it was obvious there would be no heart to heart this night or any other.

Finally, it was four o'clock. Draco was done patrolling the halls. He was on his way back to Slytherin when he heard the noise. Looks like he'd be taking house points on the way to bed, Draco thought with glee. He wondered if it was Potter. That would be even better than the time he'd caught the fifth year couple shagging in a broom closet. Draco had taken off points out of pure jealousy—why was a fifth year getting laid while Draco was still a virgin? It was ridiculous.

Draco neared the sound with silent steps. It sounded like two boys, so no snogging then. Probably hungry and coming back from the kitchens. Too bad.

Draco was right next to the stone faery when he saw the most horrible kiss in existence: there he was, by the looks of it drunk as a lord, and about to kiss Potter. "Merlin, no," he gasped. Draco closed his eyes tightly but the sight remained when he opened them again. He was kissing Potter and—wait, was that his leg winding around Potter's thigh? Good god, this was horrible.

Draco turned from the not-yets in disgust and anxiously sought a different route to Slytherin. He was never telling this to  _anyone_.

* * *

That night he dreamed he was sitting on Potter's naked chest.

"Why do you keep kissing me?" he asked, confused and oddly complacent.

"You keep kissing me back," Potter said.

Draco leaned over wrapped his hands around Potter's throat. Then he realized that they were both naked. Fedelm's laughter rang through the grassy meadow they were suddenly lying in. Potter was laughing too. His teeth were the color of pearls.

Draco woke up.

"Effing Potter," he muttered.

"Spare us your wet dreams," Blaise said from the next bed over.

Draco sneered at him. "Nancing wanker," he muttered, and got out of bed. He might as well go down to breakfast.


	11. Everybody Knows

The kiss still firmly in his mind, Draco didn't notice Pansy lounging on his bed until sat on top of her. She squealed and shoved him onto the floor. "Ouch," he said. "Cow. Sit on  _Blaise's_  bed."

"Someone looks love struck," she teased, ignoring the barb and the order. "Who is it, Draco? Who's caught your eye?"

Mouth, more like, and not even his. But Draco blushed all the same. "No one!"

"Tell me—I can keep a secret."

"Pansy, you're the hub of the Hogwarts rumor mill. What you know, everyone knows."

She kicked at him as he stood and brushed himself off. He dodged. "I don't spread everything, you know. I've never told a soul about your ghosts."

"Visions."

"Yes. See? So tell me—who is it you fancy?"

Draco sprawled beside her with a heavy sigh. "No one, Pansy. I don't want anyone, not that way. It's perfectly boring."

"Aw, how sad," she giggled. "Poor Draco's all alone." She crossed her arms over his chest and leaned over him, looking down at his face. "Anything I can do for you?"

He frowned. "Not really. Can you change the future?"

She smiled. "Everyone can change the future. C'mon, what's really the matter?" She sat up, dragging him with her.

"Pansy…" Draco paused, wondering how to word the strange feeling he'd been having around his friend. "Why did you stop flirting with me?" he asked at length.

"I haven't." She slid closer. Her right leg was tucked under her, but her left bounced playfully off the side.

Draco sighed and pulled his legs up to sit facing her, cross-legged. "You have. You're not serious when you do it."

"I am."

"You're not. Why?"

At Draco's earnest look Pansy dropped her coy innocence. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

She smiled softly. "Everyone knows, Draco, you don't have to be afraid."

"Knows  _what_?"

"You…Potter…that  _thing_  you two have. Everyone in school knows. We just don't say anything."

"There's nothing going on between me and Potter, Pansy. You know that—Merlin knows you know everything that goes on in this school, you should know when something's a lie and when it isn't. He put my father in prison, or have you forgotten?"

Pansy looked away.

Draco glared at her. They sat in silence.

"It could never happen," Draco said at length.

Pansy lay down on her stomach, pulling one of Draco's pillows under her and resting her chin in one hand. "Draco, it could. It will. Not yet, but it will."

The words 'not yet' froze the next words on Draco's tongue. He stared down at the bed, horrified.

"What? What's wrong? Draco?"

"Nothing," he said softly. Could he do nothing to change this future that he saw? He didn't like Potter—he hated him. The man put his father in the same place Dementors were let loose! The boy was insufferable! He got away with everything and people still loved him! He'd killed Cedric Diggory—his father was there, he  _knew_. Potter was a liar and a Gryffindor and entirely too self-righteous for Draco. To top it off, "His mother was a mudblood!"

"Draco." He hadn't realized he's spoken aloud.

"What?"

Pansy slid a finger along the down comforter. She seemed worried. "Draco, it's not—always—about blood. Sometimes, things…sometimes—"

Draco stared at her in shock. "Macha's tits, Pansy, you have a thing for a low-born, don't you?"

"No!" Pansy's face told another story.

"You have—tell me! Who is it?"

Pansy sniffed. "I shan't tell you. You'll call him low-born, and he's not. Well, he is…" A smile flit across her face. "But he's more than that. He's…"

Crabbe and Goyle suddenly lumbered in, laughing, arms full of food stolen from the kitchens. Blaise entered after them and quietly shut the door.

"Crabbe, Goyle, did you not see the tie on the door?" It was practically the universal sign for 'do not enter—sex in session,' and certainly the most prevalent marker used in the Slytherin dorms.

"Calm down, Draco, we knew you were only talking."

Only Blaise, of the three, would have the audacity to talk back to Draco when he was angry. "We could have been having sex!"

"No you couldn't've. Pansy's got a boyfriend and everyone knows…well…" Blaise shifted uncomfortably at his desk. He finished putting his school supplies in their places in silence.

"What?"

No one spoke. Pansy tapped his knee. "See?" she said.

"What, so everyone knew this but me?"

Pansy smirked. "That's about the size of it," she answered when no one else would.

"Well this is bloody brilliant, that's what this is." Draco fumed. Pansy patted his knee. He swatted her hand and turned away from her, hands across his chest. "I hate this school." None of them believed him, of course. They were the worst friends he'd never asked for. "And I hate you, too," he added.

"Of course you do, Draco." Pansy slid off the bed. "We'll finish this later," she said on her way out.

Draco scowled. He flopped down onto his bed. Did no one take him seriously?

"Cheer up, Draco," Blaise said from the next bed. He held an open book in his hands. A parchment and quill sat on the little table beside him. "With all his skill on the quidditch field, he's bound to be a good lay."

Draco growled, dragged the pillow Pansy'd moved back to its rightful place, and mashed his head into it. He couldn't wait till summer. No not-yets snogging with his face; no shite friends teasing him about a dreadful  _lie_ ; and best of all, no Harry Potter.


	12. Draco's Diary

It was Hogsmeade weekend. The sun shone brightly over the rooftops, the cobblestones clacked merrily under the students' boots, and laughter and the raucous sounds of children out of school echoed through the streets. Draco was feeling good. He looked wonderful, Crabbe and Goyle had eagerly gone to Zonko's instead of following Draco around like the stupid beasts they were, and Draco was free to go where he would.

As per Snape's instructions, he bought a diary.

Not to write personal things, of course—anyone determined enough could break through the protection spells on someone else's trunk. No, Draco would write about what he saw. He would write of the not-yets, in hopes that through them he could grasp the sometimes all too-certain future.

03-09-97  
I bought this journal yesterday because if I'm really stuck with this second sight, it better damn well work for me and not the other way around. Snape says he can teach us to "bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death." With this journal, I aim to trap the future. Just see if I can't.

03-15-97  
At 4am as I was walking back to Slytherin, I saw Potter and myself were kissing again in an alcove. I was drunk. It was disgusting. I was so wankered I snogged him right back, too. I couldn't watch, even if they were only not-yets. Hopefully if I keep recording these sightings, I can find a way to prevent that horrific scene from ever happening.

03-18-97  
While eating supper tonight I saw the unholy trinity overlapping the real trio and talking secretively amongst themselves. Then at quarter to eight, they left the hall. They were trying to be crafty about it, but I could tell something was up. I tried to follow them but Bulstrode got in my way.

03-25-97  
The trio left the hall the same way again, at quarter to eight.

03-31-97  
Not-Potter kissed not-me in the middle of the Potions classroom today. They were the only not-yets in the room. Thank Merlin—I couldn't bear it if someone else saw.

04-01-97  
They did it again. They've been leaving every Tuesday. If it happens again I'll just circle it on the calendar in the back of this book. I'm tired of writing it down.

04-06-97  
Potter kissed me in the alcove by the faery again. I was wankered. I don't need to look back through these pages to see that it's happened before, but coincidentally it was also on a Saturday morning. I will never drink on a Friday night or Saturday morning, no matter what happens. That should take care of it.

04-09-97  
Pansy's on again. She started today, which is why I was near the hospital wing in the first place. While the real Pomfrey was giving Pansy some Menstria Maladicta, I saw a not-Pomfrey talking to not-Dumbledore. "They couldn't have known," she said. "He never said a word about the bite to anyone! Poor dear."

There was a suspiciously messy head lying on the hospital bed over which she stood. Above the bed, the painting of the woman tending a patient was empty of the nurse. "Poor Mr Potter," Pomfrey said. She put a purple liquid into a needle and injected the stuff into his arm. Potter was very pale.

I have no idea what it all means. I have to get back to the hospital wing. If the pattern with the kiss and the trio means anything, I'll need to go back next Wednesday afternoon.

04-13-97  
Potter kissed me drunk again. It never ceases to anger me that he would take advantage of my drunken person. I'm going to spell his quidditch trousers with jellylegs. Wanker.

04-16-97  
I spelled his trousers. It didn't work—apparently that hex doesn't translate from clothes to people. I should have tried it on Goyle first.

I went back to the hospital wing today just before noon; I told Pomfrey it was to get Menstria Maladicta for one of the younger girls. She gave it to me, and just as I was leaving I managed to cross closer to the not-yets as they were talking. I couldn't be certain then, but I thought the potion might have been Wolfsbane. There are many royal purple potions, but few have the consistency of Wolfsbane. I should hope with my years in Advanced Potions, along with my special apprenticing with Snape, that I'd recognize Wolfsbane when I see it. The not-yets were talking about a bite, and if they meant a bite from a lycanthrope—highly contagious—than Pomfrey's injections are fruitless as far as keeping Potter from becoming a beast, but are rather the proper steps for preventing the more dangerous changes in new werewolves.

I always knew Potter was a mangy cur. I just never thought he'd actually become one.

04-20-97  
I avoided the spot by the faery tonight. I didn't want to see the travesty that is indubitably there.

04-23-05  
I waited outside the hospital wing around noon today. Not-Granger and not-Weasley were creeping about outside, scared out of their minds.

It was a lycanthrope bite. Potter nearly died on another of their hair-brained, misguided missions to protect wizardkind from the one man trying to save it.

They mentioned seeing my father, who had apparently escaped from Azkaban a short while before. I'm going to arrange a fireside chat with mother as soon as Snape gets out of class. I know she'll be thrilled.


	13. Drunken Kiss

Draco asked Professor Snape about Wolfsbane in class the next Monday. He didn't know why.

"I will assume you're not asking for yourself, as you know very well it takes thirty days to prepare. That is less than the number of days left in the school year—I know you're all counting. I implore Mr Malfoy's target audience to take note so we can get on with our class for today."

Draco cast a look at Granger. She noticed. Draco nodded and turned back to the board, where the Professor was writing the instructions for Pepper-up—Pomfrey's stores were running out.

Potter tried to talk to him after Potions. Draco put Crabbe and Goyle between them and hurried into the crowd of students milling from class to class.

* * *

The Ravenclaws were having a party Friday night. There would be alcohol of course. Draco almost didn't go, but it was too good to pass up: Ravenclaw girls knew how to party.

By midnight he was completely shitfaced and grinding to the slow, sensual tones of the Triwizard Triumvirate. He'd lost count of the number of drinks he'd been handed. He was quite sure his bad judgment in drinking each and every one of them was due to someone spiking his first butterbeer, but that was sadly un-provable. The lights were dim, someone had set up a strobe, and his heart throbbed the beat pounding from the too-loud stereos. The carpet had been transfigured into a dance floor, and the empty floor was soon transformed into a writhing mass of unwinding, drunk as piss Hogwarts upperclassmen. There was barely room to move without bumping into a new hip, a strange leg, a pair of welcoming arms. Draco was sandwiched between the Patil twins and loving every minute of it. Padma's braid snaked down his sweat-soaked shirt. He gripped her hips with hands damp from the incredible heat on the floor. Behind him, grinding into his ass, was Parvati. She laughed occasionally in his ear as if embarrassed by her position, but not once did she stop moving.

"Draco, you're pissed," Draco heard someone yell from his left.

"Pansy? That you?'

"Ha!" Raucous laughter. It was Pansy, but it seems she'd suddenly been accosted by a gentleman with plain brown hair and a wide, drunken smile. "You're rat-arsed!" she laughed at him. "You're drunk as a lord! Hah!"

Draco rolled his eyes and kept dancing. The night was too young to get caught up in another of Pansy's toss offs.

It was about four in the morning when Draco finally decided enough was enough and stumbled into the dark, quiet hallway. The wall torches flickered like phantom dancers, and for a moment Draco thought he might still be dancing, might still have his arms wrapped around an anonymous pair of shoulders and his arse grinding into an anonymous pair of hips. He laughed. Oh, that was such fun.

Draco stumbled along the wall until he could let go without dancing himself flat on his face. Slowly, slowly, the dungeons got closer. Or perhaps Draco got closer. One of them was sashaying, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was him. If it  _was_  him, than it really was ridiculous that he kept stopping to dance with paintings, statues, and suits of armor that weren't actually moving. "Really, they're terrible dancers," he laughed as yet another monstrous work of stone refused to move at all, even to do a little jig. Most of them would sway, but when he kicked at their feet to get them to move a bit, they'd suddenly be stone again and glare at him.

"Ouch," he said, having kicked a faery that refused to do more than flutter her wings. He kicked the next pair of legs he came to on principle.

"Ouch!" the legs said.

"You deserved it. You wouldn't dance with me."

"You didn't ask me to dance," the legs said. And then, "You're wankered, aren't you?"

The legs laughed at him. Draco kicked them again.

"Ouch!" they said.

"That's what you get," Draco slurred. "My name is Draco Malfoy. You refused to dance with me. I'm drunk."

"I realize that," the legs said, and laughed again. Draco kicked at them, but this time they moved. Since he was already sashaying (or maybe it was the hall?) he fell into the legs. Draco soon discovered they had a body with them.

"Potter?" He had Potter trapped against the wall. If only he could reach his wand…Wait! Potter's head was gone! "Potter, is that you?" All that was there was chest! Draco poked at it.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?"

"Your head is gone! Oh my god, your head is gone!"

Firm hands suddenly gripped his arms and pulled. Draco stumbled forward and up, and then Potter's head was back on his shoulders and he had a face and glasses and really green eyes. "Oh. There's your head," Draco said. "I'm drunk."

"I see that," Potter chuckled.

"Don't laugh at me. I'll kick you again."

"Sorry." Potter stopped laughing. Knew who he was talking to, that's what.

Potter was dressed in casual clothes that weren't robes: a dingy T-shirt and black trousers. Draco wasn't sure he was real. "Are you not yet?"

"Er…no?"

Potter's hands still gripped his shoulders. Draco let himself sink into them. Potter yelped and Draco sagged against him fully. He laughed into Potter's ear. "Not yet, Potter. Not-yet Potter. Not-yet…I think I'm drunk. Do you think I'm drunk? I'm drunk. Do you know how to get to Slytherin?" Draco laughed. He hissed like a snake. "Ssssslytherin. Talk dirty to me, Potter. Speak Parseltongue!" He poked Potter's chest insistently.

And then Potter kissed him.

It felt strangely…good.

_Very_  good.

Draco resolved to get drunk more often. He'd get right on that…later.


	14. Draco's Hangover Plan

"Potter's a pouf," Draco said upon waking. His throat was parched, his head felt like a hippogriff playground, the lights were entirely too bright, and Crabbe's snoring sounded like war zone…but by Merlin—Potter was a pouf!

Draco didn't need to find a new way to put Potter down a peg—Potter'd handed it to him on a plate! This wasn't just the horrifying rudeness of a not-yet, this was real! Potter was soft! A girl in men's knickers! Potter wasn't even a respectable queer like the Great Wizard Alexander—he was a half-blood! It was perfect! Now if only he could filch some hangover-be-gone from Zabini's stores he'd be good to go. All he had to do was tell Pansy. The school would be buzzing with it by breakfast.

Draco's bloodshot eyes took in the dragon clock on his nightstand. It was fluttering its wings—silent alarm—and its tail was twitching in annoyance. It'd been going off for some time then…and no wonder. Lunch was almost over. Thank goodness it's Saturday, Draco thought, flopping back down—

—and immediately regretting it as fireworks exploded between his temples. Bugger. He was never getting drunk again. Especially not around Potter. Gryffindor might kiss him again, and no matter what people said, Draco wasn't queer.

* * *

It was only after Draco woke fully that the enormity of his situation sank in. "Potter's a pouf," he said to hear it out loud.

"Of course he is," Blaise spoke up. "But he goes for tits, too."

"Oh stuff it," Draco nearly said. Nearly because his head had split open, or at least felt like it. "Blaise, some hangover-be-gone, if you wouldn't mind."

"It's gonna cost you."

"Of course." It always did. Draco downed the liquid like a shot—ironically enough, it tasted like vodka—and felt loads better almost instantly. "Thank you," he said out of habit; one always thanked one's saviors. Draco slid off his bed, rummaged through his trunk, un-spelling the traps as he went, and uncovered a sickle, which he flipped to Blaise. The other boy caught it deftly. It promptly disappeared in his casual robes. Draco frowned. It's not that there wasn't plenty more where that came from, but he hated paying others for things he should get for free. Blaise should be happy to give him things. Everyone else in Slytherin was—or had been, anyway.

"Is lunch still out?"

Blaise chortled. "Of course it's not. You'll have to go to the kitchens if you don't want to wait for supper."

"Of course." It was just his luck. "But—that's too far to walk," he muttered to himself. The hangover-be-gone worked wonders, but not if you pushed it—it wasn't an official cure, it was a student-invention of necessity.

Draco dug through his trunk again, this time for the sweets his mum sent daily in case he missed meals. He pulled out a knife and fork, spelled them clean, and then happily withdrew the latest sweet: a chocolate sponge cake, wrapped carefully in paper and a gourmet cake box. Without a second thought he placed it on top of his trunk, a family heirloom, and sat cross-legged on the floor. He was still in the rumpled robes of the previous night, but he was too hungry to care. Draco dug into the cake heartily.

"Give me some," Blaise said.

"It'll cost you," Draco replied, and stuffed another forkful in his mouth.

* * *

"Pansy!" Draco had eaten, showered, and changed. His blond hair was artfully mussed, his robes were creased just so, and the button of his slacks lined up precisely with the V-neck of his deep green pullover. He was stunning, if his reflection in the mirror didn't say so himself (it did), and ready to start his revenge on Potter for that disgusting kiss in the corridor. "Pansy!" he shouted again, hating to be kept waiting. Ignoring the whispers and glares of the other students, Draco strode confidently through the Slytherin common room and up the stairs to the sixth year girls' dormitory. "Pansy!"

There was no answer. Hiding, was she? She couldn't be sleeping—even  _Draco_  was awake. "Pansy!" Draco tried the door handle. It was spelled shut. " _Alohamora!_ " The door burst open. Draco walked in.

Just as he thought, Pansy was there. She was riding some boy, no one Draco recognized as either Slytherin  _or_  pureblood, and from the looks of it, hadn't even noticed Draco standing in the doorway, annoyed scowl on his face.

"Pansy!"

The undulating couple's rhythm was suddenly thrown off as Pansy lifted off the boy and, tits flying comically even as the boy yelped, grabbed for the blankets at the foot of the bed. "Draco? Draco, what the bloody  _effing_ —"

"Pansy, stop slumming—this is important!"

"Draco Malfoy, either I swear on Merlin's grave if you don't shut that door this instant—"

A crowd was drawing behind Draco, so he listened to Pansy. It was a private thing, after all, and none of their business. Draco took a step forward and kicked the door shut behind him.

"Get dressed or don't, I don't care, but get him out of here—" Draco pointed imperiously at the boy, "this is important."

"Draco, I don't care if you're dying, sod off!"

"Pansy, Potter took advantage of me when I was too pissed to see straight!"

Pansy's mouth opened and closed. She had a look on her face that said she'd loved to have retorted any number of things, but couldn't figure out which would hurt worst.

"He kissed me, you twat!  _Kissed_  me!"

She finally settled on "He what?" Her bed partner paused in surreptitiously pulling on his pants to stare at Draco. Draco ignored him, lowblood that he obviously was. "He  _kissed_  you?"

" _Yes_ ," he shot back. As if he hadn't said it already! "What, aren't your ears working?"

Pansy looked thrilled, which was the exact opposite expression she should have been wearing. "The little fucker grew a pair, did he?" She clapped gleefully, dropping the blanket and revealing a full chest. Draco ignored that, too. Her boy du jour pulled it up protectively for her. "Thanks," she said softly, suddenly turning into a girl. Pansy smiled sweetly at the boy. Her trademark Parkinson nose complemented her white-toothed smile nicely, in Draco's opinion. He was proud of her. Now if only she would use her looks to catch someone with better bloodlines—though not himself, of course.

"Draco," she turned to him, voice suddenly hard. "You need to leave now."

"We'll talk later?"

"Of course we'll talk later."

"Good." Draco turned to leave.

"Darling, did you not see the  _tie_?" she whined at his retreating back.

Draco blinked. "Of course not."

"The door was locked!"

Draco lifted an eyebrow and looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "So?"

"I'm going to hex you into your next life for this, you know." Her knuckles were white against the forest green duvet.

"Sure you are," Draco said. They'd walked in on each other in various states of undress since they were in nappies. Surly this wasn't all that different…

* * *

They did have that conversation.

The next day everyone knew about Potter. Pansy managed to keep out who he kissed, but the school knew he'd been sober when he took advantage of a poor wankered soul and snogged him in the corridors. It didn't go quite the way Draco planned though; Granger took up the cause and started a successful Queer Awareness Club (pronounced "quack" or "cock" by the Slytherins) that bought Potter sympathy, at least among the girls, for the small pool of available men in school willing to get him off.

Draco was disgusted.

Moreso when he discovered Pansy had spelled his eagle-owl to deliver the sweets from Draco's mum, as well as anonymous love notes, to Potter instead of Draco. The bitch. See if he saved her from polluting her blood again.

* * *


	15. Serenade

Of course the Gryffindors won their quidditch game against Hufflepuff. Draco didn't bother going to that game. He  _did_ go to the match against Ravenclaw, even though he knew Cho Chang didn't stand a chance against Potter. Still, it was something to see Potter fly, not that Draco'd admit it. And anyway, he'd made up a little ditty he thought Potter might like. Thoughtfully titled "Potter the Pouf," most of Slytherin took it up immediately.

_Potter the pouf seeks snitches in britches_  
_Potter the pouf likes wizards, not witches_  
_Men, hide your boys,_  
_Dare not give them girly toys,  
_ _Lest Potter the pouf be for whom their Johnson's twitch is._

It was a thing of beauty to see Potter's face go red over the field. Needless to say, the Slytherins were talking to him again.

* * *

Draco got the letter Sunday morning.

_Dear Draco,_

_I heard the song the Slytherins are singing to poor Harry Potter and I hope you are not taking part. It is disgraceful to treat someone poorly because they are homosexual, and I should hope you tell anyone you hear singing that they're acting lowborn._

_In regards to our much earlier fireside chat, your father is indeed out of prison now. I cannot say where he is in this letter, but suffice it to say I know he is safe and being taken care of. I hope you are doing well in school. Give my regards to Professor Snape and thank him for the healing potions—they have proven invaluable._

_All my love,_

_Mummy_

_P.S. Do be nice to poor Harry. He's trying so hard. And if you have anything you want to tell me, anything at all, you know that you may do so safely and without judgment or recrimination. I will always love you._

Draco threw down the letter. Effing  _hell_. Mum knew about the Potter thing. Not the song—he was sure she knew exactly who started it. No, she knew about the whole Potter-and-Draco thing. Snape had likely told her all about the curse by now, and since Draco wrote her about the kiss in the hospital wing, that meant she, too, knew he was stuck with Potter for the rest of his miserable life. Could things get any worse?

"What did she say?" Pansy asked, picking the letter up and dusting off the crumbs from his scone. Draco tried to grab it from her, but she read it anyway. "Aren't you glad I didn't read it out loud," she giggled, handing it back.

"Why, what's in it?" Blaise asked from Draco's other side, making a grab for it.

"Draco's mum knows, too," she said.

"Ha!" Blaise and Nott both let out large peals of laughter. Crabbe and Goyle, though apparently confused, joined in. Draco could feel his face heating up, which did terrible things for his color.

"I hate. You all."

Pansy fell halfway off the bench laughing. "Draco—help me!" Draco picked up a scone and threw it at her instead.

"You…cad…" she gasped, gulping in air between fits. On her other side, Ripley helped her up and turned back to his food.

Draco folded the letter into his robes and waved a scone at her. "That's what you get. Now shut up, the lot of you."

"Of course, master." Blaise rolled his eyes.

Pansy started humming  _Potter the Pouf_.

"Stuff it, Pansy."

The table took it up.

"I hate you  _all_ ," Draco growled. Pansy laughed again. The only bright side to Draco's morning—due in much part to the teasing that continued after breakfast—was the way Potter's shoulders tensed when he heard the song, and the look Hermione cast him over Potter's head.

* * *

Hermione cornered him after the prefect meeting that night. "What now, mu—Granger?"

The mudblood gave him a warning look. "Stop singing that horrid song."

"I have," Draco answered quite honestly. His mother's reprimand weighed heavily on his shoulders. For a moment, he'd even felt guilty. As it was, he had stopped singing the song. He was just glad others were willing to sing it for him.

"I don't believe you."

"Why not? Watch where you're going, Weasel!" Draco shouted as Weasley bumped him on the way out of the room. He was the last of the prefects to leave, and he shut the door with a slam before turning to Draco.

"I—could  _kill_  you—for what you've done to Harry."

Draco rolled his eyes heavenward. "And just what have  _I_  done to your friend this time?"

"It's that song! Make your housemates stop singing it!"

"Yes!" Granger agreed.

Draco pursed his lips. This would be fun. "Do you remember what house I'm from? It's  _Slytherin_. We do what we want, when we want, with no regard for what others think or say."

Weasley stepped forward. Draco felt acutely how much the redhead towered over him, but held his ground. Granger's finger was still pointed at Draco's chest. He wanted to slap it away. "So, you're not going to do it then? How about I just—" Weasley made ready to take out his wand.

Draco cut him off, withdrawing his own wand from his robes, a warning. "I can't make a Slytherin stop singing that song anymore than you can make me…I don't know—kiss Potter!" Draco was shocked when the words came out, but he blushed scarlet when they did.

Granger's eyes were wide. The Weasel looked a bit green.

"What it is, Weasel? Want to sing along?"

Granger gave her friend a hard look. Draco smirked; someone was sleeping on the floor tonight.

"If that's all—" Draco waited, wand held carelessly in a theatrically upswept hand.

Granger stepped in front of Weasley and nodded. "Make them  _stop_ , Malfoy. They listen to you."

Draco scowled. They  _used_  to listen to him. Some of them, anyway. It was all Potter's fault. Draco's upper lip curled unconsciously. "Tell yourselves that if it makes you feel better. You don't understand Slytherin at all."

Draco stalked off. Bloody Gryffindors. As if Slytherin had a ringleader, like Gryffindor. No, Slytherin wasn't like that at all. They preyed on the weak, and after that travesty of a game Draco wasn't strong enough to lead them. He'd come back a short ways with the song, but he wasn't strong enough yet by any means. If Potter would just stop interfering…if only…Draco could lead Slytherin.

"Draco!" Granger sped after him down the hallway. He could hear her footsteps clopping like a horse on the stone floor.

"What, Granger?"

She stopped in front of him and took a moment to catch her breath, holding up a finger to ask him to wait.

"What is it  _now_? Want me to have Slytherin hop on one foot all Monday?"

"I…I don't…I don't have time to make Wolfsbane."

Draco's heart froze in his chest. He might have stopped breathing. "Oh," he said, hoping his voice was normal. "Alright."

"That's all." Granger took off running again in the other direction. He heard her meet up with Weasley, heard "I told him," echo down the hallway with their retreating footsteps.

Bloody hell. What was he going to do  _now_?

Draco squared his shoulders. If he was going to change the future, now was the time. Damned if he was spending the rest of his life with an effing werewolf.


	16. Bring Wolfsbane

Draco took the Wolfsbane from Snape's cupboard himself. He figured since he wasn't the one using it, the trio would be blamed if the theft came to light. Besides, Draco, at least, had permission to take things from Snape's cabinet. He had that permission because he was trustworthy and knew what he was doing, unlike a certain group of Gryffindors who, true to form, were whispering to one another and looking decidedly suspicious at supper. He knew tonight was the night they would go do whatever the foolish thing is they were planning. His visions were true, he knew that now. But he  _could_  change the future—and he would, just by standing up and making his way over to them. Now he only had to wait for the perfect opportunity…

There! They were leaving. Draco stood casually, straightening his long black school robe.

"Draco, you've hardly eaten!" Pansy objected, looking from him to his plate.

"Yes, where do you think  _you're_  going?" Blaise spoke up from across the table. Draco didn't know what  _his_  problem was.

"I'll just be a minute," Draco assured them, not that he had to. It was none of their business what he did, and even if it was, he wasn't  _about_  to tell them what he planned would incense his father should he ever find out. Which, Draco realized just as he managed to get in front of the trio rushing out the doors, he would. Draco was in a room with all of Slytherin, as well as whatever other house members managed to see the light—Dark, rather—so of course his father would find out he was helping the Tiresome Trio.

It almost made Draco turn around and walk out the doors himself, walk all the way back to Slytherin and maybe go to bed early. Act shocked in the morning with the rest of the school when the announcement was made that Potter was a mongrel.

What stopped him was Potter's smile: Potter smiled at him as the trio was walking past. And it was enough.

Draco palmed the Wolfsbane and, with the same hand, reached out and grabbed the front of Potter's robes.

The Gryffindors stopped.

"What's your problem, Ferret?"

"We're a bit busy right now, Malfoy, but perhaps later—"

"Draco, what is it?" Whispered softly.

Like stars winking out one by one, conversations in the Great Hall slowly came to a stop as people noticed the confrontation.

"Potter," Draco said imperiously.

Potter's gaze hardened. "Malfoy, what do you want?"

"Yeah, what  _do_  you want, Malfoy?" The Weasel stepped up on Potter's other side, blocking Draco from view of the Great Hall. Weasley's hands were clenched into fists, and his eyes begged Draco to do anything, say anything, and just see what happened. Draco wasn't in the mood; his reputation was once again being shot to hell, no thanks to this group of teenage terrorists.

"Sod off, Weasel." Draco released Potter and opened his hand slightly. "Potter," he said softly, "bring th—"

The Weasel swung.

Draco raised up an arm in defense.

The Wolfsbane went flying.

As did a series of green and blue and red streaks of electric light.

Potter caught the Wolfsbane.

Weasley fell into a pile of twitching limbs and red hair.

The end of Slytherin table sat down, prim and smug.

Draco nodded proudly to them and turned to Potter…and Granger's raised wands. He stilled. "That's Wolfsbane," he said softly, minutely inclining his head toward the vial in Potter's hand. "Take it."

Suddenly the four were enveloped in a tidal wave of people. Draco managed to kick Weasley's prone form as he was swept up in the rush of Gryffindors and teachers, and strode happily back to his table, noting as he sat that Potter and Granger had disappeared.

"And they're off," he muttered, getting comfortable while he watched the buzzing throng about the spasming Weasel.

"Alright, Draco?" Pansy asked.

"Of course," Draco said, and then, softer, "Thanks."


	17. End of the Year

It was the end of year feast. The tables were full of empty plates and salivating, fidgeting students. The ceiling was a mass of stars and twilight shades. The head table was bursting with teachers. Draco's belongings were all packed in his trunk, Potter and his little crew appeared safe, human, and smiling when they stepped into the dining hall, Draco's father was finally out of prison, though Merlin knew where, and all was right with the world.

The headmaster stood up and cleared his throat.

Draco rolled his eyes at Pansy and tuned him out. He tuned back in when Potter's name was mentioned.

"…and fifty points to Hermione Granger for her expert application of Wolfsbane, and fifty points to Ronald Weasley for his valor and courage in facing alone a field of Moving Mines." The students clapped despite the Gryffindor counter rising even higher than it had been before. Slytherin was behind them by about one hundred points now, and behind Ravenclaw, the second highest, by thirty five points. Hufflepuff was last, but Draco didn't care about them. He suspected no one else did, either.

"Why doesn't he get on with it," Pansy grumbled.

"I know," Draco whispered back.

"And finally, fifty points to Draco Malfoy—"

"What?" Draco was floored. And very, very nervous. Please don't say what I did, Draco pleaded with his eyes. Dumbledore looked right at him…and smiled. The dodgy old fart.

"—because it takes great strength of character to value the safety of one's enemies over one's reputation."

And just like that, his reputation was shot. Again. Because of bloody Potter. Dammit to hell and back. Draco glared at Dumbledore for all he was worth. The headmaster's eyes twinkled—or was that his specs?—and sat down.

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

"Oh!" The headmaster stood again. "Gryffindor wins the house cup!" Gryffindor cheered. Banners flowed from the ceiling, red and gold and adorned with the Gryffindor lion. Draco rolled his eyes. How many years could this go  _on_?

The headmaster sat down again.

Everyone waited.

Nothing happened.

Dumbledore stood up again. "Let the feast begin!"

No one spoke to Draco during the meal, not even Blaise and Pansy, despite the surprise points bumping them into second place for the house cup. When he got back to the dormitory, Draco flopped back down onto his bed.

"It's not so bad, I suppose," Blaise said, closing the door behind him.

"Right. Why didn't you answer me when I asked you to pass me the potatoes?"

"Because I didn't want to be seen talking to you so soon after the announcement."

Draco glared at him. "I hate you when you're honest. You always say the most horrid things."

Blaise rolled his eyes and started digging around in his trunk. "I promise to lie to you from now on, how's that?"

"You're lying."

The door opened again and Pansy strolled in, now out of her school robes and in a black skirt and green blouse. "How do you like them? Todd gave them to me!"

Draco sat up and gave her a once over. "You look smashing. Who's Todd?"

Pansy glared up at the ceiling, then turned her angry face to Draco. She looked like a harpy when she was angry, but Draco decided some things were better left unsaid. "Do you pay the least bit of attention to anything that's not to do with you?"

"If you mean listen to rumors, then no, I don't. Is Todd your low bo—boyfriend?" he amended hastily.

Pansy gave him a look that promised death. "I'll overlook that. But yes, he is." Suddenly she was smiling. She flounced over to Blaise's bed and dove onto it, rolling once and settling on her stomach, feet absently kicking in the air and head resting on her hands. "I think I'm in love."

Draco pouted. "I think I'm in hell. Do you realize no one's going to speak to me until next year? You two won't even speak to me in public anymore."

"Relax, Draco, we'll speak to you on the train. Won't we, Blaise?"

"I plan to read, actually." As if to prove it, he tossed a book from his trunk to the bed.

Draco craned his head and squinted. " _Medieval Torture and You_. You're—"

"Nutters," Pansy finished for him. She flipped open to a picture of a gauntlet and read the page. "I take it back, Blaise—let me read this when you're finished."

"I'll owl it to you."

Draco kicked off his shoes and sprawled dramatically on his bed with a sigh. Then he smiled. He would miss this.

* * *

The train was crowded with students hugging and saying farewells to people sitting in other cars. Draco simply loaded his trunk in a clear place and got on. It was ridiculous, the fanfare going on. He tried to ignore the pang in his chest that said he would have been one of those had it not been for Dumbledore. And Potter. Always Potter.

Draco waited for the familiar anger to well up, but it didn't come. Instead, a different feeling, like nerves but not quite, welled up in his stomach. Draco's shoulders drooped. "It really is starting then," he said hopelessly.

He took a seat alone on the train and waited for his friends. He saw Granger's head poke into his car and then duck back out, what might have been "thanks" trailing after her. Then Pansy came in and started acting lovelorn. "Todd's in another car! And it's full of… _Hufflepuffs_!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "He's got horrible taste then—no offense. Don't tell me you hang out with his friends, Pansy. I might not be able to speak to you again."

Pansy shuddered. "Of course not. Blood is one thing, Hufflepuffs are another." She took a seat in the back of the car. Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott wandered in soon after and took seats away from Draco and his gloomy air.

The train started off.

Another school year was over.


	18. Letting Go

Draco's wand was in his hand the moment Harry Potter stepped into the Slytherin car and sat down next to him with nary a word to anyone else. It was just Draco's luck his goons were stuffing their faces in the food car when he needed them. "What do you want?" he scowled.

"Ron thinks you're a Death Eater," Potter said without preamble.

Draco withdrew his wand and sat it in his lap, clutched in tight fingers. "What if I am," he said.

Potter gave him a look and shifted closer. He ignored Draco's wand entirely. "Why did you tell us about the Wolfsbane? I won't ask how you know—I know about…you know." His eyes darted warily at the Slytherins staring menacingly at him around the car.

It was Pansy who came to his rescue. "I'm hungry," she said loudly. "Blaise, escort me to the food cart."

"I'm reading," he said from somewhere behind Draco. Draco heard a scuffle, and then "No you're not," from Pansy, and soon the lot of them were leaving. Nott gave Draco a disapproving look as he left, just before Pansy shoved him out the door, followed by Blaise's grumbling figure and the Queen herself. She winked as she left. "You owe me," she mouthed as she closed the door.

The car was empty but for Draco and Potter. There was an odd fluttering in Draco's chest that he couldn't explain. Ignoring Potter's question, Draco asked, "Why are you still here?" He made it plain that he didn't care.

"Ron thinks you're trying to trick us into trusting you."

"I could be."

"You're not though." Potter really  _was_  awkward. And his hair was terrible. "Thank you. For telling us, I mean. You didn't have to, and I know it cost you."

Draco stayed silent, thinking. It  _had_  cost him. Most of Slytherin wouldn't talk to him again, even though he'd put them in better standing with the surprise fifty points at the End of Year Feast.

"I know you're not a Death Eater," Potter said when the silence became too much. "I don't know if you're going to be, but—"

"I'm not." Draco didn't know why he'd said it. Potter was looking at him again, and it just slipped out. Potter's eyes were green as a curse.

Potter smiled. "Oh," he said. The following silence was no less awkward than the first.

"Was that all?" Draco asked, "because I really must get to the food cart to make sure Pansy's—"

"That wasn't all, actually. I wanted to…" Potter frowned. He seemed nervous.

"I don't have all day, Potter." Draco scooted closer, trying to shove Potter off the seat and out of his way. Potter stayed put. He met Draco's eyes and everything froze but Potter as, in the fastest slow-motion Draco ever experienced, Potter leaned forward and—

Their teeth clacked together. Potter's nose got in the way. Draco couldn't help laughing. Potter shushed him. Their lips were touching, wet and strange and slick. They kissed.

Draco's wand clattered to the floor. It didn't matter anymore.


End file.
